Friday, September 30, 2005

Always take the weather with you


I could see my breath in the air when I left for work this morning. Everything was crisp and the dry leaves on the ground smelled so good. In honor of the cool weather, I broke out real shoes. Something tells me flip flop season is over, though by god I will keep wearing them until the snow arrives.

On a different topic, yerba mate tea tastes and smells like hay.

It was a weird morning. There were lots of men being obnoxious in different ways. The garbage truck kept blocking my car and I would have racked it up to garbage day and parking in the wrong direction, but the garbage guy who jumped off the truck sneered at me like I’d done something wrong. On the way to work, a guy in a minivan cut me off and then tried to pick me up by blowing kisses in the side mirror, waving out the window, wiggling his eyebrows and then honking when I finally passed him. Then I got glared at by some guy in the hallway when I bought breakfast in my building, as if my buying yogurt had somehow inconvenienced him in some way. Maybe I didn’t look uptight enough carrying the yogurt back to my desk. Who knows.

I tried the Manduka mat in class last night. It intimidated me—I just haven’t been practicing long enough to do the black mat yet. Somehow it feels like the domain of the hardcore Mysore ashtangis, and my three practices a week are not hardcore.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

The vile commercialization of weddings continues apace

First there were Bridezillas. Now there are Groomzillas.

Who spends $30,000 on a bachelor party??? And why is Time glorifying them with editorial coverage??

Elope, people. Just elope.

Cranky

8am meetings are no fun. But 8am meetings are even less fun when the coordinator, who is absolutely necessary for the meeting to take place, forgets about the meeting entirely. Now today’s 8am meeting has been rescheduled for bright and early on Monday morning.

Grrr.

I am so not a morning person.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Done gone to mat heaven


My yoga mat has jumped the shark. Bit the dust. Stick a fork in it, ‘cause it’s done. That thing has had it. Every time I leave class, the mat sheds little bits of purple stickiness all over the place. The spot where my feet hit in down dog looks like it’s about to rip, and there’s a big chunk missing at the bottom. Despite lots of cleaning, the thing is now so sticky and gross that I get stuck every time I try to jump through. And then I fall over and look ridiculous. It’s not a good situation. So now the hunt for a new mat is ON.

Mats and journals—I am the pickiest shopper ever. I wish I were one of those people who can just use a basic 1/8th inch thick mat because that would make shopping so much easier. But no. I have wimpy wrists, so it's got to be ¼ thick. It's got to have a certain texture and not be too sticky or too slick. It can’t be an awful color, or have cheesy designs on it. It can’t have mommy issues or be into drugs or alcohol.

If only there were more places in Boston that sold yoga mats. There are nine million web sites but buying a mat over the Internet feels….weird. Like buying shoes—I’ve got to try them on first.

Monday, September 26, 2005

It's not what it sounds like


During spring break my senior year in college, I ducked into a piercing shop in Philadelphia and got my belly button pierced. Since then, my belly button has sported a variety of smallish silver rings, some cuter than others. But lately I’ve been obsessed with the belly barbell, that curved silver prong with a small ball on each end, one of which hangs down in the middle of the belly button. It’s tres Britney but oh so flirty and fun. I had to have one. Besides, I reasoned, my belly rings have been catching on my yoga clothes and creating unsightly bumps. A barbell is ever so much more aesthetically pleasing.

After combing through racks of tacky, rhinestone-studded crap at every jewelry place in the mall, I finally found it: a simple silver belly barbell. No bells or charms, no sparklies or tiny Red Sox insignia--just plain. I bought it home, cleaned it with alcohol, removed my belly ring and tried to slide the barbell into, well, my hole.

And tried. And tried. And tried. Until finally I grasped the truth of the situation: my hole was too small.

I felt like a belly button virgin. My hole was too small and no amount of poking or prodding with the barbell would make the new stud go through. The shaft of my belly button ring is about 5 times thinner than the shaft of the barbell and, unlike what’s possible in a real virginal situation, stretching the hole was not only impractical but pretty much impossible without getting the spot re-pierced.

In the words of Animal from the Muppet Show, “FRUSTRATED!”

With belly red and throbbing, I declared defeat and put the belly ring back in. The barbell’s in a cup in the kitchen, and every time I go in the room I glare at it, daring it to shrink so it'll fit.

Sunday, September 25, 2005

That time of year


Somehow I missed that the fall equinox was last week. Where was my head?

Autumn is pretty. It smells nice, what with the leaves falling down and getting crunched underfoot, and people starting to get their woodstoves going. Fall also means *yummy food* I might have missed the equinox but I won’t miss what the turn of the seasons means in Moxie World: harvest pumpkin soup at Au Bon Pain.

Also, candy corn pumpkins. For some reason, regular candy corn is yucky to me, but the pumpkins are just so delicious. I allow myself two bags a year, and they must be eaten before Halloween.

But really, it’s all about the pumpkin soup. It’s an addiction. As in a daily indulgence. Just. Can't. Get. Enough.

The other day I walked down to Porter from my apartment and made a startling discovery. Rosie's Bakery is opening a satellite store on Mass Ave between Porter and Harvard. Resistance is futile. Cupcakes, come to me.

Saturday, September 24, 2005

The hand of God smites down the sinners

Pithy

Seen on a T-shirt today worn by a girl having brunch at the S&S Deli:

"Attractive yet Functional"

Off the hook

Lately I've been getting random phone calls from someone in the 402 area code. They call and call but never leave a message and I've been loathe to answer the phone since I don't know who's calling. At first I thought 402 was Rhode Island but then I found out it's Omaha, Nebraska. I know people in Providence but not Omaha. Now that I think about it, I don't even think I've met someone from Nebraska before. Next time they call I'll pick it up and see who they're looking for.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Change of venue


Last night Lunchboy and I took advantage of the fact that he's on a local project. Oh, the illicitness of it all. After work I hopped in the car and buzzed out to Western Mass, where he's ensconced at a Sheraton that's full of people attending an enormous fair nearby.

This week's moment of total and unnecessary humiliation: buying condoms at a truck stop convenience store. Oh, yeah.

I'm not a hooker, really I'm not.

Visting him was like being a guest in a world I couldn't really envision until now. It's one thing to hear about what it's like to be a consultant and it's another thing entirely to see it in person. On the outside it seems glamorous, but when I walked into his room I could see how lonely that life could be. He knows every hotel chain inside and out--which ones have decent room service, who has the good gyms, who has cookies in the lobby after 8pm, who will triple his hotel points.

We lay on the enormous king-sized bed and shopped online for all the things he could buy using his AmEx reward points, imagined all the places we could go on his frequent flyer miles.

"You just love me for the side benefits, don't you?"
"You know it :)"

When we first started dating, I looked at his travel time as enforced alone time that let me lead my own life during the week. Now, I still make the most of the time to myself while he's away, but it made me feel good to be introduced to the life he leads on the road. Like I'm a part of more than his weekends. And it feels good that things are happening gradually, in their own time.

Pret a porter


Today a friend asked me what she should wear to a sort-of interview at a hip internet news site, where the dress is casual but hip casual in that funky San Francisco bowling shoe kind of way.

"Umm. Cute pants with a twin set, funky jewelry and a denim jacket," I said, knowing that I was pulling the whole thing out of my preppy New England ass.

She smiled.

I have no idea how to dress. The editors at In Style would sneer at me if they could. Those women know how to dress for everything and I mean EVERYTHING. Every time I pick up that magazine, I want to tear out the pages that give ideas for outfits to wear to every conceivable event. A bris? No problem. A third wedding? A lawn party at your gay boss' house? There you go. It's an ability that I will never have.

My friend E is a flagrant clotheshorse, with an income to match her spending habits. Once, when I met her years ago, I complimented her on a dress she was wearing from some swanky store. "Thanks," she said. "But you couldn't afford it." She was right--I couldn't. But at least I had taste, right?

If I had my way, I'd wear tank tops and yoga pants to work every day. I appreciate style when I see other people who have it, but I'm way too conservative for my own good. One of the good things that living in LA did for me was it forced me to acknowledge the existence of colors other than black, navy blue, green and khaki. Pink?!?! What a concept. Now I own more pink than I know what to do with. But I still can't put together an outfit in Jasmine/Sola to save my life.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

A few happy faces


One of the Noah's Wish volunteers took some pictures at the Slidell, LA animal shelter, showing what it's like there for both humans and their furry friends. It's nice to see some smiles after reading so many sad stories of animals in need of help.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Bush's War on Porn

The joke possibilities are ENDLESS.

The death of romance


"Partly, a model of shopping has overtaken our experience of romance. Love, historically, has been associated with a sensation of destiny. It's very difficult for us to attain a sensation of destiny where love is concerned anymore, because we think we can always look for something better, which is essentially a shopper's mentality. There's no destiny when it comes to buying pants or shirts or a dress. There'll be the nicest thing you can afford this season. But then a new season will [bring] more attractive styles and you'll actually be able to afford something better. I think that tremendous passion that we feel other generations had and that we missed was attached to a sense of destiny, and of permanent love that would survive changes in station and opportunity and fortune." --Benjamin Kunkel

Why you should avoid the 5 after a Raiders game


Is it a football game or a bunch of Skeletor fans at a He-Man convention?

Weiner dogs!


Just because.

And now, a few words from my womb


This article caught my eye today. At the family reunion on Sunday, there was a lot of talk about balancing family and career. The parents in attendance had very strong opinions on the subject, and the non-parents tended to get judgmental, as if they knew better. Frankly, I think it’s a deeply personal choice, just like whether to have kids in the first place. It’s kind of amusing, however, to watch my mother’s generation freak out when women my age and younger announce that they don’t even want to try and balance the family/career thing:

“For many feminists, it may come as a shock to hear how unbothered many young women at the nation's top schools are by the strictures of traditional roles.”

As the daughter of a career woman who continued to work full time after having me and my brother, I can say that I’ll approach things differently if and when I have a family (yes, I’m 30 but my clock is not ringing off the hook).

“For most of the young women who responded to e-mail questions, a major factor shaping their attitudes seemed to be their experience with their own mothers, about three out of five of whom did not work at all, took several years off or worked only part time….Similarly, students who are committed to full-time careers, without breaks, also cited their mothers as influences.”

It's totally true. Kindercare, you forever scarred me and I will commit hari kari before carting my progeny off to your torture cave. I hated the fact that my mom was never there when I got home from school. She couldn’t chaperone field trips and she didn’t have the energy to help plan costumes, cupcakes, or big projects. Part of it was that we couldn’t afford for her not to work, but she also wanted to stick with her career. Once I was old enough, I appreciated her example, her dedication. I saw the value in her choice. But I’ll still do it differently. I’ve watched my friends slowly go insane staying home with their kids full time, and watched other friends resent their job because it kept them from being present for their child’s formative months. If at all financially possible, I plan on working part time when I’m a mother. I’ll never forget how uncomfortable my mom was on the one field trip she came on (she had to take a vacation day to do it), and what it was like to go home with my friends after school and have their moms there to open the door.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Captain excitement

My weekend:

--cooking a pot of Galician chickpea and sausage soup
--anxiety
--meeting cousins from Arizona who I didn't know existed until this weekend. I wish I'd known about them when I lived on the west coast
--suffering through three hours of bad football playing by the Patriots
--more anxiety
--eating crow
--20 strong sets of stairs
--Family Guy

And the topper: listening to a break on FNX saying, "We play new music so the other guy doesn't have to," and then hearing a Live song that's 7 years old.

Statements of truth

"Santa Monica is the chaturanga capital of the world."

Sunday, September 18, 2005

Puella Anxia



There are times when I think that broken hearts are like the ghosts of Christmas past, but without the happy holiday connotations or piles of gifts. Broken hearts scare the shit out of you and teach you life lessons, but they haunt you without any hint of how long their odious presence will stick around. No one ever talks about the ghosts--they just ask if you're in therapy (hell yes). As always, the dirty work must be done alone, with no map of how to get out of the dungeon and back to the great outdoors.

I see myself get bogged down with the emotional detritus of last year and I hate it: the insecurity, the trust issues, the constant fear of being hurt and the anxiety that rears its head at the most inconvenient times.

I hate that when he says, "I need a night to myself," I hear "I'm sick of being with you." I hate that I tense up every time he gets a text message, or stays up IMing with a friend who happens to be female. It's an instinctual fear of being the last to know something that's blatantly obvious to everyone but me. I hate that I notice him noticing other women when we go out to dinner. I hate that it bothers me that he's still friends with most of his exes. I hate that I alternate between being empowered by and terrified of physical expressiveness.

It's oh so irrational and, often, hypocritical.

As always, there are no easy fixes. He can't do anything but be patient--I'm responsible for getting my shit together. Every day is another day in which I balance new happiness with countering the fear of getting hurt again. It's just that there are no guarantees, no absolutes. And just once, it would be nice to know that love is really a sure thing.

Friday, September 16, 2005

Better than Twister


I set a goal for myself of getting in three yoga practices this week and somehow I managed to pull it off. Today my shoulders are incredibly sore but it was so worth it. Last night I went to the primary series class at O2 for the second time. It’s refreshing to have some discipline to the poses, to pay attention to alignment and get some direction. Most of last night’s class was devoted to second series, which was a first for me. A lot of the poses were familiar but I’d never done them in sequence before and it about kicked my ass. In a moment that surprised both me and the instructor, I worked through pincha mayurasana into vrisikasana and then back out again without falling flat on my face or crashing into the wall (or herniating a disc). I’m excited about this class and hopefully I can get myself there once a week at minimum. After being burnt out on yoga for most of the summer, it feels really good to get back into the studio.

Stupidest. Thing. Ever

The perfect addition to your Hummer lifestyle.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

A word from the peanut gallery

Scully says hello!

See the Citrus magic and candles on the table? That's my not-so-subtle arsenal.

Another one off the market

Heart in little pieces...

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Play that funky music


Boston radio sucks. There’s no two ways around it. We’re a town ruled by Infinity Broadcasting and Clear Channel, and populated by loudmouthed DJs, a few of whom honestly try their best to mix things up a bit but are rarely allowed to get away with it.

After a summer spent channel surfing in the car, one thing has become painfully obvious. No matter what station I try—FNX, BCN, AAF, etc—there’s a pretty short list of artists that are being played and almost none of them are what I’d call cutting edge. It’s gotten to the point where Lunchboy and I have made a game of it. Whenever we turn on the radio or switch channels, we guess which of the following groups will have a song in rotation:

Pearl Jam
Beastie Boys
Stone Temple Pilots
U2
Live

Call the group before turning the dial and get a point every time you’re right. If it’s a song by Velvet Revolver or Temple of the Dog, you get half a point.

Just try it--the points add up fast.

Even good, classic music stops being good when it’s overplayed.

Double take

Headlines I thought we'd never see.

Good enough, smart enough and doggone it...


Are self-help books a crock or can they actually help people improve themselves? Either way, if you thought SciFi conventions were a little weird, it looks like self-help author's conferences are not quite the norm, either.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

PF Chang's can bite me


On Friday night, a bunch of us went to see Lewis Black in a comedy show at the Majestic downtown. The show didn’t start until 8:30, so we hit the PF Chang’s in the Theater District for dinner. After a ridiculously long wait, we ordered drinks and a plate of shrimp wontons because I was so hungry that I was incapable of being social. Lunchboy and his friend S eyed me warily when the waitress brought the wontons, afraid that I’d snatch the plate away from her and eat the whole thing before the plate even hit the table.

Mmmm, tasty wontons.

As I bit into the second wonton, however, my teeth hit something that was definitely not wonton material. At first I thought I'd gotten a bit of shell in my mouth or something, because it is not the nature of wontons to contain things that are hard. But after sticking my fingers in my mouth and rooting around in an oh-so-ladylike way, out came a 1.5" piece of metal.

Now, everyone has occasionally gotten a hair in their food. I've seen bugs in food and I saw pictures of that fingertip someone "found" at Wendy's. But never metal.

We were all pretty shocked. I mean, food-related dinner dramatics weren't exactly on the menu. I sat there sort of stunned. Luckily, Lunchboy and his best friend were there and they managed to keep their brains in their heads long enough to point out that it was a good thing the piece of metal didn't puncture the top of my mouth. All I could think about was if I'd swallowed more of the metal and whether vomiting was considered an acceptable happy hour activity in the Theater District.

We called the manager over and he shared in our shock--it took about .5 seconds before his eyes started getting that panicked "Holy shit, we might get sued" look. He took the piece of metal (we were all too surprised to think of taking a camera phone picture of the thing before he whisked it away) and went to talk to the cook, assuring us as he went that he was "very sorry" and that he'd look at our check before we paid. He gave me his business card. No one, including the chef, could figure out what the piece of metal was.

So I was taken aback when our waitress appeared with the bill and announced, “The manager comped your drinks and the appetizer. Have a good night!” I honestly thought the restaurant would want to do the right thing. After I found the piece of metal I didn’t even want to eat dinner there anymore, but we’d already placed our orders and I’m not one of those people who tends toward restaurant histrionics. I certainly wasn’t expecting PF Chang’s to comp the entire meal, but covering my entrĂ©e would have been a classy gesture.

Friday, September 09, 2005

Getting in touch with my inner Eva


Magpie, queen of all quizzes, sent me the Desperate Housewives personality quiz. I don't even watch the show but I couldn't resist. And apparently I'm a Gabrielle:

"You could say that life's just about pretty dresses and expensive gifts for you, but you're looking for something more. You'll find it someday, as long as you can stay away from hot young gardeners."

Thursday, September 08, 2005

No, really--this has to be the last of it


Yesterday, after a crappy day at work, I came home and almost tripped over a fat package sitting in the entryway of my building. It’s always fun to check and see if a brown box has my name on it, though that’s pretty rare. The first thing that jumped out at me, though, was the name on the return address label. The box was from Glenn’s parents. In my post-work burnt-out haze, I stood there wondering why they would send a package to someone in my building. Then, of course, I looked to see who it was addressed to—duh.

The box was big and heavy, and I knew immediately what it contained. Before Glenn and I moved to LA, we stored our winter jackets and other stuff like scarves, gloves and long underwear at his parent’s vacation house in Vermont. At the time, the decision seemed logical because we figured that his parents could bring it down with them when we came out for holiday visits. Cut to last fall, when I sent a few polite emails to Glenn’s mother, asking her if she could ship me my winter things so that I wouldn’t freeze my ass off when the seriously cold weather arrived. She hemmed and hawed in what I now recognize as the classic XXXXXX way—Glenn was a champion procrastinator, too—and then she stopped responding to my emails. Until the box arrived yesterday, I hadn’t heard from them in almost a year.

I lugged the thing up to my apartment, dumped it on my kitchen table and then sat down on the couch, unsure of what to do next. Should I open it? I didn’t even really want to touch it. But that was silly. It was just a box, even though it felt more like a big, brown emotional bomb. I busted out a kitchen knife and opened the thing up. Out fell a small, white envelope. Mary Jane had sent a note.

I called my mother.

“She sent my winter things, but there’s a note and I don’t want to open it.”

“So don’t open it. Stick it in a corner and ignore it until you feel ready to open it.”

“Am I 12? Why does this bother me so much?”

“Because she was terrible to you, and you had no closure on your relationship with her.”

I could hear my mother seething quietly on the other end of the phone. Her protective mother bear instincts were coming to the fore. She hated that Mary Jane could still make me feel badly.

In the end, I sacked up and opened the note. How one little white envelope can feel more dangerous than a loaded trap is beyond me, but that’s how it felt. On a simple Cape Cod notecard embossed with a blue scallop shell, she wrote:

Dear Moxie,

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to send you your winter things. As always, I find that my job interferes with every aspect of my personal life. I hope this finds you well. Glenn tells us that you might move to San Francisco. It’s a wonderful city and if you get out there, I wish you all the best. We see a lot of baby granddaughter B and I think of you every time we see her because she will only sleep with the quilt you made for her.

Warm, best regard to you and your family.

Mary Jane



I cried then, curled up on the couch with the note in my hands. For some reason the image of baby B sleeping with the quilt that I stitched by hand just killed me. Apparently B was the only member of the XXXXXX family that still held on to anything connected to my presence in their lives.

As I tried to explain to Lunchboy over IM last night, the sadness had almost nothing to do with Glenn. I think I let go of him a while ago, but losing my relationship with his mother was a cut that hadn’t healed yet, and getting the package and her note caught me off guard. I’d thought that the soft place inside of me that used to be raw was impervious to further interaction with that family, but I suppose it’s good that I’m not made of stone.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Flat-out acceptance


When you're used to being in crisis, or even in constant transition, stability is sort of jarring. Suddenly, the horizon is clear of major goings-on: No moves, no job changes, no complete re-evaluations of life in general. And for some weird, screwed up reason, it can feel kind of boring. Then again, it's autumn and, like everyone else, I have that ingrained "it's time to go to school" instinct that falls flat when there's no more school to attend. Autumn always feels like a time of change and I keep having to remind myself that no change is a positive thing right now.

Last night I had coffee with an old college friend who I bumped into on Mass Ave randomly a few weeks ago. He was my cotillion date back in the day, someone I smooched briefly while on a "break" from my college boyfriend. Nice guy. We sat at one of Au Bon Pain's sidewalk tables and dished about everything that'd happened since we graduated and hit 30.

"I'm constantly daydreaming about places I want to go, or cities I'd like to live in," he said. "But then I realize that it's kind of nice to have money in the bank."

"Yeah," I replied. "I love the thrill of moving but the truth is that I don't have it in me anymore, or at least right now. The idea of having to make a new life AGAIN, or search for ANOTHER job--it just exhausts me."

"We're getting old."

"Maybe, but is it a bad thing? Aren't we supposed to nest now and then have another go at the wanderlust thing after retirement?"

"I think I'll feel better about that prospect after I have the whole 20s gotta-try-it all thing out of my blood," he told me. "I guess it's a stage of life."

He's right--it is. There are days when I fight it and days when I remind myself to relax and accept it, everything we learn in yoga. Maybe that's the change. And there's more of the same down the road.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

A big IF


If you can foster an animal that was orphaned or abandoned during Katrina, here’s how. These furry friends need help, too!

My uncle and aunt, who live near Slidell, LA, managed to get back to their house, though it took them 3 hours to cut their way onto the property because their farm is surrounded by downed trees. Their house and barn sustained minimal damage, though. They're lucky.

Donating money is great but quiet stories like this make me all warm and fuzzy.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Without words

I just don't even know how to address Katrina and her aftermath. Adjectives seem pointless, and many, many other writers have described the situation better than I ever could. Giving money and donating supplies is good but they feel ineffectual in relation to the desperate need for help that exists in New Orleans right now. Blah blah blah. I don't want to be writing about this--I want to be down there helping out.

My uncle and aunt live on the other side of Lake Pontchartrain and they fled to Memphis before the storm, so I know they're okay. But who knows whether they'll have anything to go back to?

Friday, September 02, 2005

Sherlock I'm not


After a short, relatively peaceful interlude, the roommate saga continues. She went away for a week (woooo!) but left a sinkful of dirty dishes behind (booo). She's been back now for 3 days and the dirty dishes are *still there*. In case anyone wonders why I don't do much cooking at my house anymore, they need only look as far as the sink. Or the counters, which she didn't clean after our landlords did a mandatory building-wide round of rodent prevention, a process that involved them putting something toxic in the vicinity of our cooking surfaces. Will I clean it? Yes, only because I don't fancy the idea of dying an early death due to intractable stubborness.

Tonight I came home after having dinner with my best friend and found a path of kitty paw prints leading from my room into my roommate's room. Sure enough, stinky bully Clyde had been in Scully's box once again. Never the cleanest of cats, Clyde didn't manage to keep his rear feet out of the way when he took a whiz, resulting in a trail of nasty litter and incriminating paw prints all over my room and the hallway. I love the felines in general but this cat is just foul.

I cleaned up the kitty mess but I didn't touch the paw prints in my roommate's room. Maybe if she cleaned out his box once in a while, her room wouldn't reek and her fat, slovenly cat wouldn't have an excuse to avail himself of Scully's facilities.

Grrrrrrrr.

It's a walk-off

Watching Zoolander is an extremely dangerous activity, not just because of all the poor brain cells that commit suicide after being exposed to the depths of Derek Zoolander’s mental ineptitude, but because the movie coaxes forth certain aspects of my personality that I prefer to keep hidden. I’ve confronted my inner child but not my inner Wham! fan. There's no point to fighting the inner Wham! fan. Turn on “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” and suddenly I'm dancing on the couch and calling up the lyrics from whatever deep, dark part of my brain they were hiding in (along with everything I learned in high school algebra).

Blue steel, George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley. Add some jelly beans or vanilla ice cream with caramel and you’d have the deadliest combination known to man.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

In case you always wanted John Irving to be your tight end


007's take on Fantasy Publishing versus Fantasy Football:

"Pick your list of books for the upcoming season and score points based on how many weeks they spend on various regional and national bestseller lists.

I can hear you now…

But everyone would pick Bill Maher’s NEW RULES and John Irving’s UNTIL I FIND YOU. Where’s the challenge?

Ah, but anyone who had ever been on the New York Times List—the actual list, not the extended—would be ineligible. And there would be extra points for first-time authors."

My wallet heaves a sigh of relief

Premium denim is on its way out. It's about time.